INFP Mystic

"I will help the whole world one person at a time."

Intelligence: Your most banal thoughts are flashes of inspired lightning

Warm Fuzzies: Melting

Leadership: Low

Gentle and sensitive souls, INFPs do not like conflict. They would rather suffer quietly than risk stirring up negative feelings in others. Yes, on the surface, INFPs may seem too meek to stand up for what they believe in. What people do not realize is that INFPs care deeply about their values, and anything that violates those values is right in the line of fire.

Conflict

One typical scenario that will occur is that an INFP will be wandering quietly in the ruins of the town library, browsing the books and helping out the elderly ISTJ Sentinel librarian, Ms. Tetterwaller.

A truck full of drunk hoodlums pulls up inside.

“Hey guys, let’s stop and check out some books, hahaha!”

The teens help themselves to the library, laughing as they throw books off the shelves. Watching in distress, the INFP wrings her hands.

“Oh please stop,” she begs. “I so love the library, and books can be just wonderful if you would only give them a chance.”

The heartfelt plea is greeted with drunken guffaws.

Ms. Tetterwaller decides to intervene.

“You young men had better leave right now. You’re disrupting the library.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the leader sneers. “Is it too loud in here?” He raises his voice to a shout, “Hey guys, is it too loud in here?”

“Nooo!” his lackeys roar back.

“I guess you’re outvoted,” the leader says with a nasty chuckle. “Maybe you’re the one who should get thrown out.”

“Leave her alone,” the INFP says in a tiny, tight voice, coming to stand in front of Ms. Tetterwaller.

“You gonna make us?” the leader demands. “Huh, you gonna make us?”

“Let’s throw ‘em both out!” someone cries.

“No, let’s stuff ‘em in a trashcan!”

“Let’s waste the biddy!”

Suddenly there is the flash of steel as a knife appears in the leader’s hand.

Grins break out among the gang. The leader draws closer to the two helpless women.

Kzzzzaaaaasssch!

There is now a pile of ash where the leader was standing. The INFP’s eyes glow. A silvery halo of power dances over her skin like quicksilver.

The gang members give a united shriek of terror. They flee for their lives.

Once they are gone, the INFP kneels next to the pile of ashes and weeps for the fate of the poor gang leader. Ms. Tetterwaller, being a more pragmatic soul, retrieves a broom and dustpan.

“When are these young fellows going to learn to respect the rules?” she complains, knocking the ashes into a trashcan. “Now I’m going to have to vacuum again.”

“I h-hope he has gone to a better place,” the INFP sniffles, wiping at her tears.

“It’ll be nice and warm, deary,” says Ms. Tetterwaller kindly.

Love

After nuclear war destroys the world, many INFPs will become absolute pacifists. (It’s kinda too late now, but better late than never.) They will open medical clinics for the sick and hurting. The main customers for these medical clinics will be Artisans who somehow got filled with bullet holes while meditating on world peace. Fortunately for them, INFPs don’t really care how it happened--all they care about is helping the poor souls.

One day, after returning from the forest where you go to pick healing herbs, something strange happens. You are sitting in the clinic, drying and pressing your acquisitions, when you sense...something. Your powers have increased dramatically since you opened the clinic, and now you are receiving odd impressions with some regularity. Somehow--you can’t explain it--you know that an important event is about to take place.

At this exact moment a patient staggers in. He appears to be in a bad way, since he is dripping blood and trying to hold in his vital organs.

“Can you patch me up, doc?” he hisses between gritted teeth.

Your healing herbs would be little use in a case like this. You must use your powers if you are to save his life.

“Come, lie down,” you say, gently helping him to an empty bed. Every movement seems to cause him agony. A pool of blood spreads out beneath his back when he crumples upon the bed.

You concentrate, tapping into the deepest core of your being. Suddenly silver lightning begins to flash out of your skin and crackle about you like a storm.

You turn to him and touch his forehead. He whimpers in pain at the mere touch. You hesitate for a moment. I must make him well.

You force the lightning down your arm and into him, where it disappears. His raw wounds slowly close. Bones crunch back into place. The lacerated flesh cools and seals. Then it is over.

You collapse into a chair, exhausted

“Wha-what happened?” he stammers, raising his head and looking at you in amazement.

It takes a moment before you can muster up the strength to answer. It feels like you drained half your spirit. At last you murmur, “I...healed you.”

He tries to sit up and groans, clutching his side.

“Don’t sit up yet,” you warn quickly. “You must rest. The healing took too much of my life force; I could not finish.”

“You’re a mutant?” he says.

“Yes,” you admit, looking down at the floor. There’s no point in trying to hide it now that your hair and eyes are beginning to change color.

“Thank you.”

You hadn’t expected that response, and you look back up and smile shyly.

The preferred mate of the INFP is the ENTJ Warlord; unfortunately, there is only one ENTJ available, the rest having suffered a premature demise. Instead, you must choose one of the Artisan types who are now the main inhabitants of the surface. Your desperate patient happens to be an ISFP Hunter.

Over time the ISFP convalesces. It turns out that he was gnawed and clawed by a rogue bull griffin created by an INTJ mad scientist; fortunately, by a stroke of almost miraculous luck, the piercing beak missed his lungs.

To keep himself busy while he recuperates, he helps you dry and press your herbs. Surprisingly, he has a working knowledge of rare medicinal flora, though unlike you he has never read any books about it. You chat about your favorite flowers and he tells you stories about his adventures. He is quiet but full of ISFP smiles and mischief. One day he fashions you a necklace out of dandelions and teasingly nicknames you “Queen Flora of the Clinic.” Another time he pretends that you don’t want him to get better because then you would have no one to press herbs for you.

You laugh, but he’s not far from the truth. It would seem you have begun to develop...feelings...for him. Not that you would ever, ever, ever tell him.

Slowly the ISFP’s wounds mend, and then he begins to walk around. Desperately you hold out a pair of crutches to him (a pitiful hope) but he laughs them off.

“Looks like I’m all better, Queen Flora.” he jokes. “I guess, uh, I’d better be going then? Wouldn’t want to keep the griffin waiting?” He insists that he must kill the griffin before it can harm anyone else.

All you can do is nod--and hold back the tears.

With a jaunty little salute, he trots off.

You drag yourself back to the clinic, lock yourself in your room, and cry for the rest of the day. Then you write an angsty poem and cry through the remainder of the night.

In the morning, red eyed and sleepless, you drift from bed to bed, checking bandages and doling out medicine. Should I have told him? you ask yourself. No, of course not! He would never love me. But maybe--maybe-- No!

Right in the middle of examining a patient’s tonsils, you come to a realization.

You find Ms. Tetterwaller and ask her to take over the clinic for awhile. Then you rush home, pack up a bag of supplies, and sling it over your shoulder. You mouth is set in a line of determination.

Wherever he went, you will find him. And you will tell him everything you should have told him before.

You walk from town to town, village to village. All you know is that the ISFP is looking for the creature that savaged him. But nobody seems to have any news; in fact, all anyone seems to know is that there is a terrible beast rumored to live somewhere up in the Mountains of Death. Could it be the griffin?

You go to a shopkeeper. “I would like to buy a map of the Mountains of Death and enough food for a journey there.”

“What?” he gasps. “Only a fool would be stupid enough to go into the Mountains of Death. There are monsters there!”

You place a bag of gold pieces on the table. He counts them carefully, bites each one in his teeth, then gives you spam, MREs, and a map.

You set off.

The going is difficult. First you pass through the Forest of Gloom and cross the River of Woe. (You are almost eaten by the Alligators of Woe, but fortunately you are a fast swimmer.) Then you cross the Desert of Sun.

Finally you come to the foothills of the Mountains of Death. The grim black crags scowl down at you. The distant roar of some savage creature echoes against the rotting cliffs and dies away in a sickly groan. Is your beloved somewhere in this bleak place?

Though exhausted, you force your aching feet to move onward. Drooping under the pack, you stumble along, clambering up ravines and sliding down gullies. The mountains are a bewildering maze of slippery scree punctuated by boulders like huge black skulls. Often you must stop and circle around to avoid crevasses. You call your beloved’s name and hear only the weird echo of your own voice, soon lost in the hissing of the wind.

You ration out your remaining supplies as long as possible. One week passes, then two. Finally it becomes obvious that if you do not turn back now, you will not have enough food or water to make it home. Your quest has failed and you have lost your love forever.

You sit down on a rock, drop your face into your hands, and weep.

There is a roar of fury from somewhere nearby. A familiar voice shouts defiance. You leap to your feet.

The noises came from the next gully over. You scramble across the rocks, your fingernails bleeding as you claw your way up the slope. You find yourself at an overlook. Down in the ravine near a little pond is your beloved, and plunging headlong at him is a night black griffin with two arrows sticking out of its feathered breast. The ISFP notches another arrow to the string, but too late--the griffin rears up and sinks its razor beak into his neck.

“Noooo!” you scream.

You watch in a horrified trance as the griffin shakes him like a mouse. The ISFP gives a weak cry and claws at the beast's face. The griffin hurls him down, gives a terrible screech, then stumbles to pond, drinks for a moment, and collapses. The ISFP lies motionless on the ground.

You break out of your frozen trance and run to his side.

He gives a weak moan. “Q-Queen Flora?”

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I will heal you.” You place your hand on his forehead--already cold and clammy--and draw on the strength within. The quicksilver dances over your skin and falls like healing rain upon his brow. You can see the flesh trying to close up, but you are tired, terribly tired. The Mountains of Death have drained your very life out. No! I cannot let you die!

You grit your teeth and dig deeper, deeper, deeper within your soul. You are winning now--the wound is beginning to close. Darkness closes in around the edges of your vision. The sky and mountains begin to whirl around you.

“I love you,” you whisper, drawing out the last bit of strength from your final inner chamber. You give it to him. The world goes dark.

Suddenly gold light suffuses your being in a radiance beyond light itself. You see the connection between you and him, between yourself and the patients in your clinic, between everyone, everywhere. You know who you are at last!

The ISFP stares at you in awe. Then he reaches out and seizes your wrist with an unexpectedly firm grip.

Your body crumbles away into dust, and so does his.

Together you spring free into a realm of light.

The place you are in is beyond comprehension or description. Only one thing is familiar--him. You gaze into his eyes and smile. He takes your hands and whispers,